


Shadow Song

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4159029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So.<br/>Yeah.<br/>Right.<br/>Lot of prompts for this pairing on the kink meme and I dive in to write because, you know, HNNNNNGH, but then I remembered that OH FUCK ME I write the really fucked up headcanon Coma, and that's probably not what they want so...yeah, here I go with my streak of shitty failed kink meme fills. Woot.</p><p>ALSO I really suck at writing beautiful people so you can, uh, look forward to that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow Song

 

“Splendid,” Immortan Joe’s purred against her, at the tap on the door. A sound he’d obviously awaited. He was never so indulgent than when one of his wives had caught his seed, never so solicitous of what he thought were their needs. Within parameters, of course.  Such as now, when he viewed it as his duty, suckling and pinching and toying with her breasts, to bring forth milk. “I have brought you a surprise.”

She didn’t want a surprise. She wanted so very much in this world, and she was used to disappointment. But the last thing she wanted was anything Joe had to give her, something she had to pretend to be grateful for.  

It got so hard, after a time.  But she had at least one smile in her, if for no other reason than she knew her sister wives would suffer if she showed her bad mood. “You are kind,” she managed, for the same reason, to smooth his ego. If she was pleased enough, she thought, maybe he would leave.  Thankfully, he’d decided long ago that Angharad’s lowered eyes were demure.  

“I am,” he agreed, chuffing up, almost like a child, giving one fast final kiss to each of her small breasts before moving to sit up, tugging the fabric back up over her breasts to cover them, like prized possessions, toys he was putting away. “And I have brought you music.”

The door opened, and she could see the arm of a War Boy, guiding in a newcomer. The newcomer moved unsteadily, off-balance, feet scuffing carefully along the floor, as if wary of tripping over something.  Blind, she thought, elbowing up, wincing as the fabric brushed her irritated nipples.

“One of your warriors,” she said, disappointed.  

“He is.  But he may surprise you,” Joe said, easily, and then turned to the musician. “Two steps more. There’s a chair.”  

He moved forward, carefully, as she watched: one step. Another. Then he reached out, fingers finding the back of the caneback chair, one of Joe’s prize antiques. The musician eased into the chair, warily, as though expecting the thin cushion to collapse underneath him. Unused to it, Angharad thought. Used to the plain rough stone of the rest of the Citadel.  It made him somehow...interesting.

“Miss Giddy said you were having problems sleeping.” Joe sugared the words with his voice--he liked to remind the Wives that they were reported on, spied on, as much as he liked bragging how much he knew.  Miss Giddy, though, reported only so much as she had to.  Yes, Angharad had had trouble sleeping since she’d realized her condition. But Miss Giddy hadn’t told him about the tears, her earnest prayers to be allowed to die. “He will play. It will help.” As if it was clear, as if it was something he could control.  

In his mind, he did control it; he controlled everything. Sometimes Angharad wondered how much he believed in his own godhead.  Surely a god could spark a child in a woman.

It struck her, slowly: it meant he was leaving. It meant he was going to spend his attention--and seed--on one of her sister wives.  And while she felt a pang of sympathy for whichever of them had to endure his grunting, sweating, heaving ministrations, she couldn’t resist the selfish relief that she, tonight, would be free of him.  Music or not, it was a luxury, and her “Thank you, Immortan Joe,” vibrated with sincerity.  She didn’t even turn her face from the kiss he planted on her cheek, almost ebullient, before he swept from the room.

And she was alone with him, Coma, the musician.  She’d heard of him, and had heard, of course, the vague, wild strains of music as they rolled into war.  He didn’t seem like that now: sitting, looselimbed, on the chair, an acoustic guitar across his legs, waiting for some cue or signal.

“Hello,” she said, sitting forward, bare feet on the cool stone.  

His head turned toward her, blind-faced and blank, paying attention.  

“I’m Angharad.”  

Another pause, filling with silence, and then an unsettling suspicion.

“ _Can_ you speak?”

A quick shake of the head, and his right hand left its idle caressing of the guitar to tap his throat, in a gesture that was supposed to, she figured, be meaningful.

Ah, it figured, somehow. Stars and Moon forbid that Joe would leave her with someone who could talk, someone she could exchange ideas with, words and stories.  Well, if that was how it would be, that was how it would be. But she could ask one thing, at least. “Do you want to play? You don’t have to.” He, at least, would have that much freedom, from her.  

A nod this time, certain, almost eager and his hands glided over the guitar, picking over a stream of muted notes, ducking lower and lower before moving into a smooth, stately glide of chords.  His face changed, somehow, no expression she could describe, but something rapt, absorbed, and the notes seemed to resonate in her body, light and sweet, and Angharad found herself caught in the music, as well, almost breathless, afraid to disrupt the stream of melody, not wanting to miss the way his hands moved, sure and confident, knowing and belonging on the instrument.

There was no way she could sleep, not with this filling the room, the notes like little gleaming prisms of crystal, glittering around her, hanging long after their sound had died. It was beautiful and each time he shifted key or tempo, she had a moment of lament for what had passed, before the new tempo, the new melody swept over her, even better than before. And the music changed, earthy and sensual, filling her with so much energy that she had to get up, had to kick her feet off the bed, electric and alive with energy.

He seemed lost in the music, himself, heedless of her, and she realized, well, he was blind, so she threw off her clothes, with a kind of reckless glee, stripping off the flimsy white fabric, as if she could feel the music dancing on her bare skin.  She spun around, playing with the fabric, watching it flutter and ripple as she moved, swimming through the air, and she felt a smile, almost alien, playing on her lips.  She wasn’t far enough along that the pregnancy weighted her down, and she felt almost free of it, and all the burdens it entailed, as she danced.  

Angharad swept in front of him, and found herself ducking in to plant a fast kiss on his cheek, spontaneous and warm, called forth out of her by the music, by the momentary freedom.  

The tempo stumbled, just for a second, fingertips startled off their strings. He caught himself swiftly, back on measure, back on beat, but the momentary lapse drew her. He was human. He could get nervous, shy, rattled.  

She felt a thread of mischief tug in her, pulling a laugh from her lips, that danced among the notes, and she whirled around him again, leaning over the chair’s back, to fling her arms around his shoulders, pressing her breasts as warm circles against his shoulders.  She felt him shiver under her touch, the notes going startled and still. “You play beautifully,” she whispered, against his ear, and she felt his breath catch under her touch. She could see down his shirt from here--the broader chest, lightly muscled, smooth skinned, no marks or lumps or scabs and below that, the rise of his--...and she felt a shiver of something that pushed her back, away from him, the long train of fabric in her fingers whisking over his shoulder as she fled to the bed, throwing herself on it, pulling the sunfaded coverlet over the ball she curled herself into.

The music continued, for a moment, a quivery, atonal wandering of notes, before the last one faded into an unsettled silence.  

Angharad tried not to breathe, tried to make herself small, impossible to hear, lost in the space. She wished it was as easy to silence her mind, which threw her memory after memory of Joe, his naked, heaving body, the hard ungentle stab of his swollen manhood. How it hurt to sit down when he was done, everything bruised and chafed and sore.  

There was movement and then a weight on the bed behind her, the shifting dip of the mattress. She tried to be silent, but even so, a small whimper slipped through her throat, just as a tear pried itself under her eyelids.  Angharad felt a spider-soft touch, on top of the coverlet, on her shoulder, resting there, warm and still.  And she forced herself to think, to be calm: Joe wouldn’t leave her with someone dangerous. And someone who played music like that…?

She turned, lifting just enough of the coverlet off to look, unable to shake the feeling she was using an unfair advantage--able to see when he wasn’t.  He was sitting, on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on her, his own shoulders bowed, almost as if he understood.  She felt like his music had brought this to her, stripping away the layers she hid behind, her emotions pulsating warm and raw just under the surface, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to blame him.  “This is such a poor thanks for your playing,” she said, her voice small, miserable, and the hand moved from her shoulder, feathering gently over her cheek, finding the droplets of the tears her eyelashes had scattered on her cheek. It wasn’t his fault. He’d done nothing wrong, and here she was, acting ungrateful, weak, like a child.  She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, he was gone.  

***

“Miss Giddy,” Joe said, pulling Angharad into his lap, “said she found you sleeping like a baby.”  

Miss Giddy hadn’t mentioned, then, that Angharad had been naked, curled into an egg under the coverlet.  Miss Giddy kept their secrets. Angharad nodded. She had slept better afterward than she had any right to, as if the music had broken through something. Something that Joe’s hands were unsettling, wandering, fumbling and possessive, over her thighs and belly.  

“Good,” Joe murmured. “My child needs to be protected at all costs.”

His child. As though she was nothing more than a container for it, the overspill of his ego.  It sickened her, and Angharad was glad he couldn’t see her face. “Yes,” she managed, hoping it was enough.

“I could have Coma play for you again,” Joe said, combing through her hair, his voice studiedly casual.  A trap--an alarm in her belly telling her not to sound too eager. Show that you want something to Immortan Joe and you’ve just handed him something he can withhold.

“As you wish,” she said, blandly.  “I am merely grateful to your kindness.”  The words tasted like bile on her tongue, but she would swallow that, and her pride, if she did get to see him again, hear him play.  Miss Giddy had taught them how to play, but the music they pulled from their instruments were nothing like what he could do, turning notes into almost pure emotion.  

It was the right thing--she could feel his chest swell against her back, gratified, his hands giving a squeeze he likely thought was ‘playful’ to her nipples, tugging them out.  “Well, then, I will send him around, later.”  

It was a later she clung to with both hands, as he took his pleasure with her, planting kisses over her breasts, her belly, rubbing himself over her body.  And the soft compliments he murmured made it worse, made her hate the word ‘beautiful’, hate the long, straight limbs of her body, the curves of her waist and hips, the very parts he seemed to revere.  

He left, at long last, with a sour-tasting kiss on her mouth, and she just had time to pull her clothes straight, smooth down her hair, and then the door swung open and he was here again, the musician, moving a little more surely this time, as if he remembered where the chair was, and knew his duty.  

Angharad couldn’t help but clutch the coverlet around her, even though she was clothed, even though he couldn’t see, even though just yesterday, she’d danced naked around him, reveling in the very body she now felt such burning hatred for.  

If he even realized she was here, or if it even mattered, she had no idea: a few quick plucks of the strings to tune them, and he was playing, music filling the silence, a steady, rocking melody, almost like a lullaby, the notes rolling up and down, then up and down. Soothing, she thought, and she pushed herself off the bed, dropping to her knees in front of him, close enough to touch, but not daring.  She was fascinated by his hands, broad and muscled, but somehow supple, able to caress the fine strings.  And his face, too, caught her, the flat blank eye sockets, the full, almost sensuous lips, that seemed to twitch and vibrate along with the music, resonating with the notes.  The two tangled together--him and the music, captivating her, taking all of her attention and mind and heart, and there was no room for any other thought, just now. Just now.

The song faded and Angharad rose up on her knees, her slender arms folding around his neck, pulling him into a hug over the guitar.  “Thank you,” she murmured, for the music, for being here, for taking her away from herself, if only for a few minutes.  His cheek was warm and smooth against hers, and she felt his arms leave the guitar, folding around her. It felt so different than when Joe touched her--there was nothing possessive in the touch, nothing owning, and the arms released her gently as she sat back.  

“I wanted to--about yesterday,” she said, twisting her thin hands on her lap. “Please, I--” She didn’t even know how to say it--that it wasn’t his fault, that she’d scared herself, that all he’d done was play music and be kind, and maybe that that was so unusual that it had frightened her.

His mouth quirked into something like a fleeting smile, and his hand moved forward to touch her face again. She closed her eyes under it, tilting her face up, like a flower, into his touch, feeling his fingertips skim over her mouth, her small, straight nose, the wing of her brows, and the start of her hair.

His fingers paused as they came to the raised crossed scars on her temple, head tilting, curious, the touch even gentler.  Angharad felt a lump rise in her throat, words pushing past her.  It didn’t matter, she told herself. He couldn’t tell anyone. He was as safe as anyone could be, even safer than Miss Giddy.  “I thought,” she said, the words hard in her throat, “I thought if I made myself ugly….”  Did he even know what ugliness was?  

How could you not, in this place, she thought. “I thought, if I could be in control of the pain, if I could do something to feel it, bring it outside, let it out somehow.”  She shook her head. She couldn’t explain it right. How do you possibly explain feeling so trapped, so helpless, that feeling physical pain was almost a relief? It was something you knew would end, something you knew would heal.  

Angharad shifted onto one hip, and somehow, she was leaning against his leg, staring blankly across the room. She’d never tried to explain it--her sisters knew their own pain.  She rubbed the scars on her thighs idly. “He stopped me.  He tried so many ways. I was tied down for days, wrists bound. But even he knew that couldn’t last.” She’d simply refused to eat, spitting out food, deciding that her helplessness was permission to die. “So. He took one of the others, and held her out the window.” Joe was old, scabrous and vile, but he had an uncanny strength. She still remembered Cheedo’s face, white with terror, feet dangling in the empty air outside the Atrium’s height, her hands clinging to Joe’s wrist, and all of them praying his strength would hold. To pray that a tyrant remained strong as he tortured...that was what this place had done to them.

“He said he’d drop her if I ever did it again.”  And everyone had believed him: Joe was never one for empty threats. He valued his wives, but they knew even that had its terminus.  

Angharad covered her face with her hands, feeling tears burn between her eyelids again. “If it had been me...I would have let him drop me. But Cheedo.”  She didn’t deserve to pay the price of Angharad’s small rebellion. Cheedo, whom he'd picked because she was the youngest, the smallest, the most innocent.  She shook her head, and then she felt herself moved, his strong hands under her shoulders, and she was once again sitting in a man’s lap, feeling heat and muscle and strength behind her, but it was different, so different, because the arms around her were just holding her, as if trying to be a frame of stability instead of a cage, and the heartbeat she could feel against her back was steady and sure and stable, and Angharad found herself melting back against him, her hands squeezing his.  She’d run out of words, and he had none, but somehow, this was better than any words, more honest, somehow, more real, and for the first time she could remember, Angharad felt something like peace.

***

It was as if Immortan Joe knew.  For a week, Angharad was kept in the Atrium, not called out to one of Joe’s special chambers. For a week, she lived on that fragile memory, curling to sleep, imagining arms around her, strong and warm and comforting. For a week, she tried to pick something like music out of the piano, but all that came from her fingers were technical notes, without the passion, without the magic of Coma’s playing.  It was a beautiful kind of pain, to hear something beautiful in your head, and fail, over and over, to capture it, drag it into reality.  Because even that failure was better than contemplating the life growing in her belly, that she knew she should love but could not somehow bring herself to.  

For a week, Joe entertained himself with his other wives, and Angharad tried to console herself that she was, at least, spared that.

But real happiness couldn’t build itself on a foundation of someone else’s misfortune.  It was almost a relief when he summoned her again, orders coming down through Miss Giddy that she should prepare herself for him, including a small, clouded glass bottle of something Miss Giddy called ‘perfume’.  

She knew what to do: a bath, then rubbing oil into her skin so that her body almost gleamed, contrasting with the soft white filmy garment.  If she obeyed, he would be done sooner, she hoped, and she realized, as if for the first time, how twisted her logic had become--become beautiful to survive something you can’t even really call a life.  

Miss Giddy kissed her goodbye, as she always did, with mournful eyes.  She’d never told them her story, but they all knew Joe had had his time with her--she knew as much as any woman could, what they endured.  “I will have tea for you when you get back,” Miss Giddy said, a rare pleasure she knew was inadequate, and the way her hand clutched on Angharad’s told her that.  Everyone did their best in this place. It wasn't their fault that their best couldn't change anything. 

Angharad didn’t want tea, but she knew it was the best Miss Giddy could offer, and far more than anyone else, so she murmured a bland ‘thank you,’ walking like one of the Wretched as she followed the War Boy to Joe’s quarters.  

Angharad froze in the doorway, stirred out of her own half-life, by the sight of red fabric.  Coma was here, sitting slack and silent, guitar over his legs. And Joe lounged on the bed, sheet thrown over his waist, almost basking.

“Ah, Angharad, my Splendid,” Joe said, turning to her with a lazy smile. “How I have missed your touch.”  

Words left her, along with all the air in her lungs.  He couldn’t--he wouldn’t--he was.  He was going to take his pleasure with her, right here, now, with Coma sitting, witnessing.  She felt her skin grow pale and clammy, and the smile on her face, she knew, looked queasy.  

“Are you shy, my pet?”  Joe sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, reaching forth a hand.  

She nodded, and the hand pressing the fabric close against her breasts didn’t need any acting to tremble, but she forced herself, on knees that felt like water, to cross the distance.  Joe gave a rumble of pleasure, folding his arms around her hips, pressing an ear against her belly as though he could hear the growing life within. “He can’t see,” Joe stage whispered, as though sharing a secret, spreading her thighs with one hand, pulling her down to straddle his lap.  

Coma couldn’t see, but he could imagine, she knew, and the thought of that almost paralyzed her, making her numb to everything, dead even to shame as Joe laid her out on the bed, as if she were a doll, and nothing more, suckling at her nipples, her top thrust aside, his stubbled chin prickling and abrading the skin, his hand rubbing between her thighs, spade-flat fingers curling into her sex, probing into her. He squeezed her thigh between his hairy ones, grunting, grinding his half-erect cock against her.  

That was the worst of it--that he wasn’t getting any real physical pleasure out of this himself--he was doing this to her, purposely, putting on this display of ownership, of possession, of power.

His hand hurt, pushing into her body, and it was only that and a rising wave of misery that pulled a cry from her throat--more a wail of agony and humiliation than any sort of ecstasy. But he didn’t hear the difference, or didn’t care and all that mattered to Angharad was that he relented, having got what he wanted.  

He kissed her trembling mouth, with his white-stubbled lips. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “In spite of your worst efforts, Angharad. Beautiful.”  

It felt like a destiny she couldn’t escape.

***

He left soon after. Why should he stay? He’d proved his point. And the air seemed to thicken in the room, but Angharad couldn’t even bring herself to pull the skirt down over her bruised thighs.  She couldn’t even cry, just staring without seeing at the high stone ceiling, wishing she could stop breathing, stop living.  

Angharad felt a touch, on her arm and at first she flinched away, as though the touch was a firebrand, burning into her.  “I’m sorry,” she said--or rather, barely said, the words not even loud enough to be a whisper.  

Coma shook his head, the hand leaving her shoulder to brush her cheek, and then he bent down, and she felt his lips, warm and plush, so gentle in comparison to Joe’s, on her own.  Just resting there, for a long moment, not pushing, not insisting, just a simple, gentle, human contact against her abraded lips.

She thought she would hate it. She thought she should, so soon after Joe that she could still smell his sweat in the air.  But this felt so different it felt like it was an entirely different word, like they both couldn’t be called ‘kiss’.  Her tongue peeked through her parted lips, tasting his, only the second man she’d ever kissed, and his mouth seemed to melt against hers, one hand sliding under her shoulders to gather her against him.  

She felt her body loosen under the kiss, the terrible tension that had gripped her body with Joe’s touch ebbing from her joints, and he tipped back, breaking the kiss reluctantly, his hand smoothing over her head, combing through the silky gold of her hair.  

He pushed back on his elbows, sliding down her body, and she felt his mouth again, warm and soft, between her breasts, his hands skimming the contours of her body. And where Joe’s touch brought shame and revulsion, his hands brought an unfamiliar, tingling sort of arousal. She could feel the trails of his touch, like fireworks under her skin, shimmering and rippling together, as if music was inside her.  She felt her body shift under him, pushing up into his touch, her own hands reaching for him, clinging to the wings of muscles on his ribs.

Angharad felt a flutter of fear as he shifted down again, fabric gaping around his shoulders, and she could see under it, down his body again, see his cock stirring to life.  She couldn’t.  

But he made no move to strip out of his clothes, just sliding down her body, mouth tracing a wandering line, like a melody, under her breasts, over her still-flat belly, flicking along the seam of her thigh. It was like he was brushing away the bruises, the hard, owning touch of Joe’s greedy hands, with his breath, with his mouth, nuzzling against the soft nest of dark gold hair on her sex, before resting his cheek there, shifting to lie on one shoulder between her pale thighs, idly stroking one hand down her thigh, flirting with the back of her knee. He touched, and recorded, every one of the fine mesh of scars on her body, as though awakening them, recognizing the pain hidden under them.  As though those were what made her worth something, as though what she had suffered gave her strength.  Joe had called her beautiful, in spite of her scars. This felt...as though if she had any beauty it was because of them.

He turned his cheek, and she gasped, feeling the heat of his tongue against her, leisurely exploring the swollen folds of her sex, tasting her body.  

Her thighs rose, following the hot trail he was drawing on her body, and her hands knotted in the rumpled sheets.

Angharad whimpered, but it wasn’t the sound of pain anymore, but a soft, longing sound, desire that had so few outlets.  

He gave a sound, like a sigh, wriggling his hips down against the bed, settling between her thighs, and Angharad couldn’t even describe what he was doing--she felt her sex parted, cool air in a private place, and then the warm air of breath, and then wet heat which called out a hot wetness of her own, skipping the rhythm of her heart.  “Ohhhhh,” she half said, half sang, the word long and lilting from her throat as he moved lower, tasting the metal-salt taste of her sex, tongue sliding like a slow blade between the long folds, before finding a little star of pleasure at the top, hidden under pink flesh.  And he repeated it, slow, maddening, building a hot fire of longing in her, something vast and powerful she’d only dreamed about.

It made Joe’s touches more of a blasphemy, taking and owning what should be shared, given, offered like a treasure, and each slow move of his mouth on her felt like lifting another layer of scar and damage from her, waking her up to some sacred thing within her.

Angharad’s hand reached, blindly, and found his, and she squeezed her thin fingers in his, feeling the strength and gentleness in his hands, so easily able to hurt her.  His own breath came ragged against her, another level of heat and sensation as he paused at the top of each long lick to take the little sensitive node in his mouth, roll it against the back of his teeth, his own hips squirming, frustrated, against the mattress, as if his own need was a secondary thing, vital, but less important than her, than tasting the salt sweetness of her, than feeling the way her thighs began to tremble and twitch around his face, and her voice turned to a series of whimpers, matching each flick of his tongue against her. Angharad writhed on the bed, feeling something rise within her, almost threatening to overwhelm her, something so beyond her, so foreign to her experience that it felt, for a moment, like danger, something heart-pounding and powerful.  

And then it tore over her, like a tumbling, crashing cataract, and she squeezed his hand in hers so hard she could feel the bones in his hand, her thighs clamping against him as her body shuddered, wracked, pulling a sound that was a cry of pure music from her throat.

He went still, letting the orgasm ebb from her body, draining her into a delicious sort of heaviness, before he pulled away, then crawled up her body, to lie down next to her to give a shy nuzzle at her cheek.

She thought he would take her, then, that he would take the opportunity to bare his cock, sheath himself inside her, and push his own lust through the new, trembling slickness of her awakened body, but he didn’t, merely pulling her against him, chastely clothed.

Angharad could feel that he was hard, feel it against her, along her thigh, a reminder of desire, but nothing more, and she felt a kind of tearful gratitude she couldn’t explain, finding his mouth with hers, tasting herself on his lips and tongue.  She pulled him against her, and she found herself crying, curling her thigh around his hip, her face buried on his shoulder.  Because this was special and precious and beautiful, but she could already feel tomorrow reaching toward her, with grey fingers: back in the Atrium, in her lonely narrow bed, or her body, now awake and delicious, under Joe’s hands, and it was too awful to think about.  

And he seemed to understand, folding his arms around her, stroking her hair back over her temple, tracing the curve of her spine, holding her while she cried at the ephemeral beauty that she felt was already dissolving in her hands.  

He kissed her hand, gently, as if planting a star on the palm, and pulled her arm around him, inviting her to embrace him back, the two of them tangled in the sheets and all the dark rules of this place. And it felt like a glowing, if small, moment, like a fire’s ember, something sheltered between them.  And she knew, suddenly, that he’d needed this too, almost as much as she did--a stockpile, however small, of bright, glittering moments. Like music, she thought. Beautiful, but half the beauty of music was that it didn’t last. It could only be lived, fully lived, and treasured, but not kept.

Like her.

**Author's Note:**

> Smack me if I missed a tag, of course. 
> 
> Also, you and I both know that the very very LAST thing a person in real life wants after experiencing sexual assault is...more sexual contact. Which is why I kept it as I did, to at least avoid the full on Magic Healing Cock trope. But still, I recognize that it's problematic. Just write it off as id, and as I do, I shrug and say, goddammit if my name were GRRMartin, I could be making BANK on this shit.


End file.
